


there is a crack in everything (that's how the light gets in)

by cultfilmx



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Character(s) of Color, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, character is plus sized, early version of deadpool story, underdogs ftw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 01:49:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9470150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cultfilmx/pseuds/cultfilmx
Summary: Your story doesn't involve super human strength, going down in history, or getting frozen for years on end. The only thing you and Star-spangled have in common is good old fashioned trauma. You're both land mines on some grown over field.





	

Stark says you'll get along just fine--two people caught in the wrong time, what could go wrong? Two people who's heads are in anachronistic clouds. 

Maybe Stark thinks he's funny, like he knows something about what its like to be living every single day of your life comparing it to moments that are gone and over and done.

Your story doesn't involve super human strength, going down in history, or getting frozen for years on end. The only thing you and Star-spangled have in common is good old fashioned trauma. You're both land mines on some grown over field.

But while hes stuck in old time-y radio and swing dancing glory days, you're stuck on a five week event that happened eleven years ago. There was no super human strength, no history books, no one let you go to sleep for thousands of years.

You couldn't quite figure it out at first, but the more time you spent together it quickly came together what Steve had that you didn't. Something is romantic about him--People love Steve's trauma; the way he keeps his little lists and asks what "selfies" are. Nothing's cute about being afraid to drink milk, or disassociating in the middle of missions. 

You're no poster boy for this. Maybe you're the poster boy for having incandescent nightmares, a terrible drinking habit and an ability to drop friends like flies.

Steve is what people want trauma to look like: successful, beautiful, heroic, fit.

No one wants the chubby, temperamental mutant with PTSD to save their life. 

He says you'll get along great, but even though you just had met Pepper, the look she sends him reads somewhere between confusion and anger, and you can't help but doubt his statement. 

But who cares if you get along? You're getting nearly three years of your rent paid off in one day. You're going to be the richest you've ever been by the time this month is through.

When you moved out of Professor X's kindergarten, you also took on the weight of no longer being sponsored by him. A part of you thought that now that your parents were out of the picture and far away from the X-men, all the bullshit would just melt away. God knows trying to maintain a full-time job when you're a mutant with a mental illness is like playing baseball in a Swarovski shop.

You made a compromise, but to some degree you were reaching a point where you weren't really given a choice.

While all your old friends were out getting their post-secondaries, you had spent your young adulthood in a fucking mutant college. You couldn't drive and were shit at math--the only thing worth mentioning was your ability to manipulate gravity. Unfortunately, a lack or surplus of gravity doesn't pay the bills.

Over the past few months, when people start showing up at your door, including one of Mr.Stark's associates, you don't say no. You say yes, and you shut up and take the money.

So when Stark says you and Mr. Army Boy are gonna get along, the only thing you do is shake your head yes, shut up, and take the money.

\--

You decide to meet after his workout. Which actually meant he decided, because there was no other excuse that would bring you this close to the front entrance of a gym. 

You're trying to keep myself from hate-checking out all the beautiful agents exiting and entering through the doors in front of you, but its nearly impossible. Maybe Stark explicitly hired models to be his agents. 

You spot him before he's even noticed you. It's kind of hard not to notice the beefcake of a man standing in the middle of the room. He's so ripped it looks like he's permanently flexing and you nearly throw up in my mouth. Jesus Christ. 

You absentmindedly try to wipe your hands on your sweater, as if the smell of cigarettes would suddenly dissipate if you rubbed hard enough.

"Hey."

He snaps his head up from his very dated looking phone. Your forehead reaches an embarrassing chest height on him. 

Even though he's trying to be polite, you can tell he's sizing you up: the big cat-eye glasses, the dark lipstick, the not so "Avengers" physique. Its sweet that he's trying, but its see through as ever.

"Agent (l/n)." He puts his hand out for a shake, and you return it with the wrong hand for some reason unbeknownst to yourself. Its awkward.

"Not an agent. But thanks. Nice to meet you..." You're unsure what he prefers his teammates to call him: Steve? Mr. Rogers? Mr. 'Murica?

"Steve." He says it like he's surprised you didn't already know. 

"No, I know, I mean, I--nevermind."


End file.
